


About A Life At Sea

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8228210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: “From as early as I can remember, I dreamed of someday being captain of a ship, to be out there on the ocean in the middle of the night, navigating by the stars.” – Raymond Reddington





	

 

 

 

_“From as early as I can remember, I dreamed of someday being captain of a ship, to be out there on the ocean in the middle of the night, navigating by the stars.” – Raymond Reddington_

 

 

It never matters in which universe, nor the period of time.

It never matters in which the circumstances arise, whether it’s forged by fire and blood or by sea spray and steel.

Raymond Reddington will always stumble across Elizabeth Milhoan.

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The story we know so well starts with a blazing fire and a little girl with wide blue eyes and a scar seared into her wrist, in her possession something of great value. It starts with betrayal and life altering choices.

Choking smoke and snow drifting down from the Heavens, her saviour, a man with scorched flesh sluicing away from the hard planes of his back, and a corrupt Government tarnishing his name, carries an orphan to the arms of a close friend. He leaves her there, within the safety of quaint countryside.

 _Lizzie_.

A prayer, his second chance.

And after many years, when she’s grown and _strong_ , the wilful woman he knew she’d blossom to be, when he can no longer bare to stay away from her, Raymond Reddington kneels before the FBI and pledges his allegiance to Elizabeth Keen.

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But _this_ story, it starts differently.

It starts with a song, eerie as it floats across the foggy water, the ocean lapping at the hull of the ship. Swollen wood moans and creaks, the soft hiss of the sea filters through the salty air. A little girl peers into the unknown, adventures dancing through her blood, her imagination a wild and wonderful thing trapped in the confines of society.

 _Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me_.

The verse that she so carefully whispers across open waters, are met with harsh words, stern admonishment, the stench of alcohol and warm breath brushing across her cheeks.

“Quiet Missy, cursed pirates sail these waters!”

She should flinch back from him, shake off the calloused hand latched to her shoulder, clamp her mouth shut and take heed of his warnings, to feel _fearful_. Master Gibbs has experience with pirates, she has heard the whispers, knows the rumours. Except Elizabeth, as she so exclaims to him, thinks it would be rather exciting to meet a pirate, the youthful ignorance of her age garnering her pitying looks from the other men scuttling above deck.

_It’s bad luck to have a woman on board._

And with a blasé comment, Lieutenant Ressler is suddenly standing before her, rigid and harsh. Never a man to censor his words, he orders Joshamee Gibbs away, the scurrying sailor’s flask already pressed to his lips as he hurries back to his post.

Ressler is a leader amongst men, an aspiration. He is a man with the world at his feet, grand plans for justice, integrity, for the world to be _put right_ , driving him forwards. There is a bitter taste on his tongue when he speaks of pirates, her young intuition tells her, something like resentment dripping from his stern tones.

“I intend to see to it that any man who sails under a pirate flag or wears a pirate brand get’s what he deserves; a short drop and a sudden stop.”

He’s boring, _dull_.

But Elizabeth is always the dutiful little girl, nods her head and offers the pretty words expected of her. She has learnt the hard way, the ways expected of her by men, the disapproval of her curiosity blistering her skin. When she is left to her own devices once more though, when the men have their backs turned to her, ignoring the young girl that floats among them, a voice like a siren, sending chills down their spines, her gaze is drawn back to the sea, yearning clawing within her chest.

It is only moments later when acrid smoke is choking the air, the soft kiss of sea spray fresh against her cheeks, a flurry of movement bursting to life around her.

And it’s because of her strident voice,

“Look, a boy! There’s a boy in the water!”

The men are shouting, readying themselves for an assault, because there is a ship laid to waste before them, smoke curling and twisting into the sky. Lieutenant Ressler gives orders, his voice sharp, _cutting_ , against the ghostly silence.

But it is Gibbs’ voice that rings above the ruckus, draws her attention, heart thrumming with adrenaline, _excitement_.

“Everyone’s thinking it, I’m just saying it; _pirates_.”

It is the first time she sees the wreckage rout by bandits of the sea, the splintered hulls of ships, fire licking up the timber and away from the salty water. It is the day they drag Will Turner, a lone survivor, from the depths of the ocean, a boy with a gold pirate medallion wrapped around his throat, and now, a secret for Elizabeth Milhoan to keep.

It starts with a black ship with black sails, pirate colours hoisted high, disappearing into a curtain of fog.

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The first time we _see_ him save her, it is by standing between her and a loaded weapon. It is by shooting an innocent man before the truth is blurted out into the open and the grey matter of her brain is inevitably splattered over the underground bunker.

It’s when he murmurs,

“So if you kill her, you better kill _me_ , or I’m _going_ to kill you.”

(Let’s not forget that she saves him too.)

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.

So of course, in this story, he saves her as well.

It may be the first time, they may be strangers, but it most certainly isn’t the last.

She plummets into the ocean, a terrifying fall from a fort that’s filled with men meant to shroud her with chivalry, to protect her as the weak woman they think her to be. She tumbles away from a proposal to the sharp teeth of rocks below, boulders that bemoan the near miss, the ripples created by her body plunging into the cool sea lap over sundried stone.

He hears the splash, it draws his attention.

But she doesn’t surface.

And the men standing beside him, the ones trying to apprehend him, these _soldiers_ , men of The Empire, they can’t swim. He looks above to see others scrambling at the side of the cliff, like a swarm of furious ants, none willing to jump after her, to be claimed by the rocks or the tide. They’ll be too late, the sea curling into her lungs and choking the life from her. They’re too _slow_.

 _Pride of the King’s Navy, you are_.

So he dives from the ship he is attempting to commandeer, the ship that will eventually lead him back to _The Pearl_.

He dives after her.

And drags her from the deep blue depths of the ocean, heaves her to the surface and up onto the deck, a dress given to her for the day of her proposal now sodden with salt, a soaked tomb that threatened to pull them down into black oblivion.

Spread around her like a halo is her hair, chocolate tresses tangled with salt, and her skin pale, milky.

Her chest is terrifyingly still, motionless.

She isn’t breathing, and the two soldiers surrounding him are panicking, voices high pitched and hysterical. There is the thunder of boots against the jetty, the rest of the King’s Navy coming to her rescue, too little too late.

With rough hands, stained black with tar and grime, he pulls a blade free from his person. Tearing at the fabric of her corset, constricting, _suffocating_ , he slices through the material, until there is water retching from between her pinks lips and the blaze of her blue eyes is visible to the waking world.

And that is when he notices the medallion around her throat, golden and glinting.

“Where did you get _that_?”

The ring of steel, music of the _time_ , sings around them before she answers, and he’s levelling his eyes with the point of a blade, newly appointed Commodore Ressler glowering down at him.

He hears the order given, the finality of it, the inevitability.

 _Shoot him_.

And then he hears her protest, voice ferocious and broaching no argument, a young woman with the ocean burning in her lungs, snarling at her father, a _Governor_ before turning to the other in command. There is a familiarity between them, and there is no missing the look of surprise on Ressler’s face, the fond exasperation that creeps over his features as she storms forward to meet him, tiny frame trembling from the cold, from her fury.

“Commodore, do you really intend to kill my rescuer?”

With a smirk, an infamous smile across the seas, Red wonders if she knows who she is defending.

When the swords are sheathed and muskets are lowered, a handshake offered and a snarl evident in Ressler’s tone, he knows it’s a trap, recognises the tingle of peril slithering up his spine.

He accepts the shake anyway, bites at the inside of his lip, feels the cool drip of sea water slide down his ribs, the breeze chilling his skin and waits. It comes as no surprise when Ressler yanks him forward, exposes the pirate brand scorched into the flesh of his forearm, and then throws his hand away as if by touching him he is tainted.

“Well, well, Raymond Reddington, isn’t it?”

It’s noticeable the way she turns to him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, something like awe burning in her expression, ringlets of wet hair framing her delicate features. He ignores her, keeps his gaze on Ressler.

Swords are unsheathed, muskets are raised.

And yet, she comes to his aid again, when shackles bite into the flesh of his skin, hang heavy from his wrists. He looks at her, at the way her nostrils flair, carrying herself like fury incarnate, and feels a bemused smile stretch his features.

“Commodore, I really must protest! Pirate or not, this man saved my life!”

And he wonders how long she will be able to keep this black and white image of the world, where good deeds are rewarded with forgiveness, a world where there is no grey, no murky waters of corrupted morals and the thirst for greed.

“One good deed is not enough to redeem one man from a lifetime of wickedness,” is Ressler’s gentle reply, though it broaches no argument.

“Though it seems enough to condemn him,” Red taunts back, head cocked to the side, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

That is how it all begins, Elizabeth Milhoan, a young woman, standing between him and Ressler, between a Commodore and a pirate.

There is something fierce about her, something _raw_ , the mindset of a woman who has been raised by men, constantly belittled because of her gender, thought of as delicate, innocent.

Red thinks she is anything but.

And he has great respect for her, the way she fiercely defends him, the way she snarls and rages at the men around her, demanding to be heard, to be _seen_. He thinks that she’ll go far, this Elizabeth Milhoan.

But naturally, in the end, he does try to escape.

Lurching forward, he has her pressed against him, the chain of his shackles glide against the soft skin of her throat, a snarl of rage bursting forth from the men surrounding him. He hears the whimper that escapes her, breathes a laugh into her ear when she attempts to struggle away. Because she _can_ be used to manipulate these men, men that are hidden behind uniforms and beneath pristine wigs, lacking all understanding of the ferocity of the woman ensnared in his arms.

Red makes his demands, escapes with his effects, his sword and pistol. He has her dress and attach his holsters in front of Ressler, smirks at the fury, the _jealousy_ , in the other man’s eyes. And then, with one last smile, he is suddenly pushing her into the crowd of men, wrenching his shackles away and fleeing.

He’d almost executed it perfectly, fleeing from the ferocity of the Empire, escaping back to the swell of the sea. Except there is a young man, with vengeance riddled through his posture, standing in his way and hundreds of swords surrounding them, a blacksmith with a conscious.

“You threatened Miss Milhoan,” the boy snarled at him, the steel of their swords already kissing.

It’s a fair fight until it isn’t because he is a _pirate_ and he _cheats_. An escape is all but guaranteed until an empty rum bottle cracks over the back of his skull, at the mercy of a drunkard.

He has already been swallowed by oblivion by the time Ressler finds his unconscious body and has it dragged off to the dungeons.

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Elizabeth Keen is thrust into danger the moment Raymond Reddington strides into her life, the swagger of his step doing nothing to resemble the hurricane that sweeps in after him.

Blood is spilt, sprayed across landscapes. Tactical vests and ammunition belts are clipped on, combat boots tied up. Weapons are cleaned, shining brilliantly in the dim lighting of her work place, co-workers around her following suit.

These days, when Elizabeth Keen dresses for work, she dresses for _war_.

There are explosions and fist fights, bullets that graze flesh and scream into the night.

And there are kidnappings. There are monsters that drag her away from the safety of the city, of home, and into the dank dark woods, a cabin where teeth line the shelves and a chemical cocktail bubbles away.

When that happens, it’s only natural that he goes after her.

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In this story, it isn’t her _work_ that leads to her capture. No, it’s because once more Elizabeth possesses something of value that is not hers.

Raymond Reddington, notorious pirate, a _myth_ and legend, had dragged her from the claws of the ocean, saved her life. He’d stood before her, boots crisp with sea spray, an unbuttoned blue waistcoat and a white tunic stained with salt, the material gapping to reveal the golden glint of his chest hair in the Caribbean sun.

A red sash was wrapped around his waist, the colour of blood.

Rugged and dishevelled, his eyes burned the colour of the emerald glinting on his fingers, sapphires and rubies accompanying them, set in gold. Tattoos littered his forearms, skin that had been kissed by the elements gleaming with seawater. Stubble graced his features, shorn hair hidden beneath a weathered tricorn. He had a smile like the Devil himself.

And after all the stories, after everything she’d read as a young girl, having lived a life through fantasies, she had been greatly disappointed.

He is just a rogue, a bandit, a _murderer_.

Pressed against him as she had been, her hands by his waist, iron chains wrapped around her throat, she’d spat an insult through clenched teeth, to only be graced with a smirk and a whispered agreement.

 _You’re a monster_.

But now, monsters lurk all around her.

They come for her in the middle of the night, among the bellow of cannon fire and the terror of civilians. Pirates had set upon the shores, blades drawn and roars tearing from their throats. Tattered clothes and filthy beards, coarse words and rotten teeth, they come for her.

“You’ve got something of ours and it calls to us. The gold calls to us,” they whisper to her, voices so soft before wrenching her free from where she’d sought cover, not excitement but _fear_ scorching through her veins.

She’d recognised the ship as she stood from her balcony and looked out upon the water as the first peels of cannon fire bellowed through Port Royal, feeling as if she was eleven once more, Will Turner a young boy near drowned at her feet, the first pirate ship she’d laid eyes upon melting into fog.

So Elizabeth makes her demands, _parlays_ ; she knows the pirate code, stayed up late with a candle throughout her childhood years, knees tucked beneath her and hair like a curtain around her face, pouring over tomes, seeking adventure among the pages.

These renegades, filthy sea scoundrels, they take her to _The Black Pearl_ ; a hulking beast swaying with the tide, deck as dark as pitch, sails snapping against the night sky, a vessel of vengeance. And at the helm stands an ominous figure, watching her in the darkness of the night, the moonlight shrouded with the silver wisps of cloud. The Captain of _The Pearl_ sports a wide brimmed hat adorned with feathers, his face is scarred, scraggly beard whipped by the harsh sea wind. He is a far cry different from Raymond Reddington, but still, he oozes experience, power, malice.

She’d heard the stories of _The Black Pearl_ , the horrors of a ship that sailed blanketed in fog, came and went without a trace.

 _A ship with black sails that’s crew by the damned, and captained by a man so evil that Hell itself spat him back out_.

And if Elizabeth had thought, for a moment, that she could wield words, negotiate and _match_ Captain Barbossa, she had been dead wrong. But she tries, with a spine like steel and her tongue laced with gunpowder, explosive, she _tries_.

“I want you to _leave_ and never come _back_.”

He asks her name, and she falls under the cloak of Elizabeth Turner, not a Governor’s daughter but a lowly maid, not knowing that it would ultimately lead to her demise. She passes over the medallion, the treasure they’ve been searching for, _killing for_ , all these years.

In return, a promise is made.

“Very well, you hand it over and we’ll put your town to our rudder and _never return_.”

It was of no use.

They’re _pirates_ , _liars_ , twist her words and leave her town, take her hostage.

“Your return to shore was not part of our negotiations nor our agreement so I must do nothing!” He sneers at her, sardonic, yellow teeth bared, as she charges after him, panic bleeding into her movements, leaving them jagged and shaken.

But, of course, he ignores her protests, stalks off to the helm with a limp and a chattering monkey on his shoulder.

“Welcome aboard the Black Pearl, Miss Turner!”

And that night, after her first day at sea, a captive, Barbossa wines and dines her, watches with avid interest, with the keen eyes of a lewd gentleman, as she chews at her food and sips at her wine. It is difficult to ignore the yellow stain tarnishing the border of his irises, a sign of a sick man. And like Elizabeth has come to realise, sick men like to talk, to leave a mark on the world before they’re ripped from it. So he shares with her a story, murmuring over Aztec Gold and the most heinous of curses, without touching his meal, voice a low whisper.

“I hardly believe in ghost stories anymore, Captain Barbossa,” She murmured back, childish amusement sparkling in her eyes, that gene of wanderlust running rampant through her veins.

And then he speaks of a debt to be repaid, blood to be spilled across cursed gold, a direct threat to her life, all amusement fading away. It’s not so much an adventure now, but a battle for survival. So she _fights_ , is as harsh and callous as she has always been. There is no hesitation when she plunges a blade into Barbossa’s lungs, only terror when he wrenches it out of his chest cavity, blood coating the steel.

“I’m curious, after killing me, what is it you’re planning on doing next?” He asks her, holding the knife aloft, crimson dripping onto the timber floorboards.

Stumbling and choking on _fear_ , she bursts forth from the Captain’s cabin into the crisp night air. And it is the moonlight that reveals what the crew really are. Dead-men with bulging eyes and bleached bones, ghastly beneath the pale silver light lurch towards her, wretched laughter spewing forth from cracked and stained teeth.

And when she crashes into him, clawing at the sea-stained material of his shirt, she thinks that this isn’t like the stories _at all_. He growls at her, Barbossa, as he steps into the light, flesh disappearing from bone, wine dripping down an empty ribcage, sinew and rot clinging to his skeleton.

“You best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Turner. _You’re in one_.”

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He tells her that the world is not black and white, but she can’t help but see it that way.

Elizabeth Keen very much believes that she is on the side of justice, on the side of _what is right_ , and Raymond Reddington is submerged in the black abyss of the criminal underworld, a world painted with blood and sinew. She is right and he is wrong.

Until she’s unleashed a bullet into the Attorney General, a man fundamentally _evil_ , and finds herself on the run from the people she’d grown to know as family.

And at this point in her lifetime, the only person she wants to turn to, _does_ turn to, is Red.

They find themselves together, stranded, as a hurricane rages around them.

It’s all about survival.

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In this story, Reddington isn’t given the chance to get to know Elizabeth _until_ they’re marooned together. And it’s no fault of hers, and no fault of his. It is fate intervening.

The same young man, the blacksmith, comes to him in the dungeons when he’s sitting amongst filth, tricorn shielding his eyes from the offending rays of light that reflect off the golden straw. Smoke still snakes into the sky, the port, civilians trying to rebuild the morning after Hell swept through their town, salvaging the dead, noting the lack of pirate bodies, though they _swear_ that some fell.

He can still hear the sound of the cannons, of _The Pearl_.

She sounds like home.

So, this boy, blinded by lust, by _young love_ , he comes to a notorious pirate, _Raymond Reddington_ , to save his damsel in distress. A woman that Red doubts will ever need saving from the likes of men.

But in exchange for Red’s assistance, the boy offers a way of escape, a way to find freedom once more, and his name.

 _Will Turner_.

It clicks then why Barbossa and his crew of miscreants had come to pillage the shores of Port Royal, the golden medallion around Elizabeth’s neck, the _curse_.

Red had sailed with a Turner, Bootstrap Bill, so long ago when the deck of _The Pearl_ had been beneath his boots and the smooth railing beneath his fingers. He knew the kind of man Bootstrap was and what drove a pirate like him; a mutineer, but one with a guilt complex that had ultimately led to his demise.

He was a man that didn’t have the heart to be a pirate.

So, it is easy to manipulate his son as well.

“This girl, how far are you willing to go to save her?” He’d asked, though he already knew the answer.

Elizabeth, she inspires something within men, and Red is willing to admit that she has sparked his curiosity, a Governor’s daughter playing at a life at sea, cursed gold dangling from her neck and ferocity blazing in her eyes.

“I’d die for her,” Turner replies, instantly, without hesitation, his tone fierce.

Of course, he would.

And now she is aboard _The Black Pearl_ , so Red agrees to go after her, because if the boy is willing to lay down his own life for hers, so be it.

Evading Ressler is child’s play, commandeering _the Interceptor_ even more so. Obtaining a crew in Tortuga, sailing to the Isla de Muerta, it’s as familiar to him as the wheel of _The Pearl_ beneath the rough pads of his fingertips.

He has a plan. Get _The Pearl_ , retrieve the girl and sacrifice Turner to Barbossa, the blood to be repaid flowing through the young man’s veins. He’d die for Elizabeth like he’d said, Red will be reunited with _The Black Pearl_ , and Hector Barbossa will have a bullet lodged in his cranium, the curse broken and the captain dead.

But this _Will Turner_ , he’s reckless, without restraint, attempts to take matters into his own hands, and naturally, bungles the entire operation worse than even Ressler could manage.

And that is why Raymond Reddington finds himself stranded on an island, the same he was marooned on ten years ago, watching _The Pearl_ sail into the distance once more, his heart and soul gliding away from him beneath the hands of a mutineer, a dark devious man.

Elizabeth Milhoan is stranded with him.

She’s soaked to the bone, hair tangled with salt, tossed from the deck of The Pearl, as Will called after her. The weak _boy_ that had doomed her, an incarnate of rash decisions and immaturity, a dismal negotiator, is now sailing off to his death, everything for naught.

Waves lap and lick at her bare feet, moisture creeping up the thin material of her dress. It is silence that reigns around them, not soft and gentle, not comfortable, it’s lavish with tension. He’s rolled up the cuffs of his trousers, boots placed beside him and toes kneading into the soft silky sand. Elizabeth, she is standing across from him, arms crossed and expression fierce.

He’s only got one pistol, one shot.

And they both know it.

“If you’re going to shoot me, please do so without delay.”

There is no sense of decorum, the demand delivered viciously, bluntly. It is enough to take him back for a moment, to chew at the inside of his cheek, roll his vocabulary across his tongue, weigh the words he will reply to her with.

He will not be shooting her today, this woman who stands before him, an ethereal goddess. The weeks she has been at sea have kissed away the soft white of her skin, freckled her nose and bleached the chocolate strands of her hair. Red thinks it could be possible to get lost in the blue depths of her eyes, the azure nadir of the Caribbean staring back at him.

It’s greatly amusing how this woman, this wild and untameable creature, still worries for the boy, restricts herself to the stability Will Turner could bring to her life. Raymond knows she’d grow bored, restless, that she belongs on the open waters just as he does. Turner is a good man, a righteous man, but not the one who should someday belong to Lizzie.

But she is adamant about saving him, snarls and rails at him, defends Will and his stupidity.

“You were marooned on this island before, weren’t you? So we can escape the same way you did then!”

He is Raymond Reddington, a notorious pirate of the seas, as fearsome as they say, cunning and witty and _dangerous_. A myth and legend known to glide across the Caribbean, sowing loyalty and fear as he goes, raiding and pillaging, plundering like the criminal he is. So, it’s natural that his stories have been exaggerated, his image elevated to God-like status in a time where people _thirst_ for entertainment, weave and spin tales in pubs, along bars, ports and mansions alike.

So he offers her all he can, because getting off this island won’t be like last time. He looks at her, the way her eyes blaze, sea swept hair twisting in the breeze. No, the stay on this island won’t be _anything_ like last time.

“Young Mr Turner will be dead long before you can reach him.”

It’s not good enough, and she stalks after him, flicking soft sand from beneath her feet, until she’s grabbing roughly at his shoulders, sending him stumbling a step backwards, beneath the hot Caribbean sun, snarling,

“But you’re Raymond Reddington! You vanished from under the eyes of seven agents of the East India Company! You sacked Nassau Port without even firing a shot! Are you the pirate I’ve read about, or _not_?”

Never has it mattered before, what meaningless opinions others have of him, whether they believe the great stories that are whispered across oceans of him, but now, staring back at her, he is hesitant to admit that he isn’t all that she believes him to be. Gnawing at the inside of his lip, there is no reply forth coming.

“How did you escape last time?”

And there is a level of awe in her voice, something slightly breathless, riddled with adventure, that makes the twitch beneath his left eye jump to life. This girl is too _pure_ , too untouched by the world to think anything more of a man who’s hands are stained with blood, tendons and ligaments caught beneath fingernails.

Gently, he walks her backwards, fingers brushing against the soft material covering her biceps, her chest almost pressed to his. It’s difficult for him to ignore the way her eyes briefly flicker down to his lips, but soon an admission is spilling forth, seeping into the space between them, and their gazes are locked, sapphire and emerald sparkling in the light.

She doesn’t take kindly to his tale, that there was no daring adventure, only that he’d struck lucky and had been able to bargain his way off the island, outrageously drunk, because Lady Luck just _adores_ him that much. He isn’t entirely sure why he wants to wince when he sees the disgust in her eyes, but it makes him bite hard at the inside of his cheek to stop him from doing so.

“So is there any truth to the other stories?”

Of course there is. His body is tarnished and littered with scars from his adventures; ropey purple ridges of flesh, slashed across his arms, scattered across his torso, small thin veins of tarnished tissue marring almost every inch of him. He’ll show her those, without hesitation, where bullets bit through sinew and muscle, left black marks in their place. He’ll display the truth to her and watch as her teeth clack together as she slams her jaw shut, swallowing down the accusations that sit on her tongue.

His back, the mottled and scorched flesh, he will not show.

And when she’s silent, when there is nothing more to say, that fury that burns so fiercely in her eyes, when it dims, he rolls a bottle of rum across the pearly white sands until it comes to rest at her feet. She picks it up without hesitation, though with a look of disdain, uncorks the bottle and takes a swig that Red is proud of, moving to sit beside him with a sigh.

They sit that way for a long time, the ocean lulling them into a sense of security, aided by the sun, by the rum that burns warmly in their bellies. The breeze, salty and fresh, gusts through the towering coconut trees; Red taking note of where the fruit tumbles from above and lands with a _thud_ on the sandy shores.

If the sun and thirst doesn’t get to them first, they’ll starve to death soon enough.

When he stands, she quickly follows, and soon enough it seems as if he has a second shadow. She sticks close by, as if suddenly realising their precarious situation, the danger and futileness they have found themselves submerged in. They’ll need a fire, something to keep them warm after the sun sinks below the horizon, slashes the sky in orange until the darkness slithers in like smoke, the chill of the night creeping off the ocean. And so as he begins to gather wood, she follows suit.

It doesn’t escape his notice that she matches him drink for drink.

And eventually, just as the sun creeps away for the night, a fire is blazing before them, reaching high into the sky and bathing them in flickering light. They sit before it, at times the heat making their skin itch as they stare at the flames. The rum has leached into their bloodstream, tinged their cheeks red, loosened their limbs. Lizzie is chattering away, a grin splitting her features, slightly breathless and giddy.

Red wonders if she has ever consumed hard liquor before.

And when she is pulling him to his feet, a laugh bubbling forth from her throat as she begs him to dance, he comes to the conclusion that she has not.

It doesn’t stop him from joining her as she prances around the flames, rum bottle in hand, belting a bawdy pirate song into the darkness. And when he asks her where she learnt it, she’s holding his forearm and laughing so hard she can’t breathe, she can’t _answer_. He can’t help but stare down at her, his heart seeming too small for his ribcage, battering bones as it thunders on and on and _on_.

“Lizzie, I think it’s best if we try and get some sleep now,” he whispers softly, lips near her temple, her body weight pressed into him as he holds her up.

With a frown, she pulls away from him, arms crossed, expression fierce. It’s for a moment that Red panics, believes he overstepped boundaries. He takes a step back from her, arms dangling at his sides, rum bottle clenched between his fingers.

“My name’s Elizabeth, not Lizzie, to you I’m Miss Milhoan,” she corrects him, voice of a haughty Lady of the Empire, chin stuck out, pert nose high in the air.

It makes him laugh, and the way she glowers at him, the way a slow smile tugs at the corner of her lips no matter how hard she bites at them, wills it away. He’s laughing and then he’s laughing even _harder_ , because she’s collapsed back onto the sand giggling, eyes shut with mirth.

She’s beautiful.

 _Oh_ , she is _beautiful_.

Sitting down beside her, he takes another swig of his bottle, looks out to the inky blackness of the ocean, waiting for her laughter to recede. And when it does, he turns to face her, to find she is staring at him, features soft, content.

“When I get the Pearl back,” he murmurs to her, she’s wriggled closer to him, shoulder pressed to his side, hair tickling the exposed skin of his collarbone, “I’m going to teach that song to the whole crew.”

It makes her grin even wider.

“You are positively the most fearsome pirate in the Spanish Main,” and she says it as if she is teasing him, eyes glinting.

“Not just the Spanish Main, Lizzie,” he growls in reply, “the entire ocean, the entire _world_.”

That sends her into another fit of giggles, and whilst she’s distracted, clutching at her ribs, rubbing sand into her clothes and hair as she wriggles on the shore, he’s able to extract the frighteningly empty rum bottle from her soft, warm, fingers.

When she falls quiet, it is only the crackle of the fire, the rumble of the ocean, that fills the silence. It’s that way for a few moments, Lizzie propped up on her elbows, Red’s forearms bracing himself on his knees. And then he is murmuring,

“Where ever we want to go, we go, that’s what a ship is. It’s not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails, that’s what a ship _needs_ , but what a ship _is_ , what _the Black Pearl_ _really is_ , is freedom.”

And she is looking at him with something akin to _awe_. He knows that look well, it’s a thirst for adventure, anguish about being jammed in the mundane, it’s an expression he’d expect to see on a woman as fierce and independent as the one laying beside him.

There is no reply, but she does tug on his shoulder until his back sinks into the sand, before she rests her head on his chest, closes her eyes and sinks into sleep. He is powerless to stop himself from pulling her closer, arms keeping her snug, only falling lax when he follows her into oblivion.

.

 

 

 

.

It never matters in which universe, nor the period of time.

Lizzie is _always_ unpredictable.

.

 

 

 

.

So when Red wakes in the morning, without Lizzie in his arms and smoke snaking into the sky above, when he wakes to explosions, we are not surprised.

But he is.

Because she’s thrown the caskets of rum onto the fire, burned their shade, their food, their only chance for survival, all gone in a blazing glory of flame.

And it’s all because she is _clever_ enough to realise the _entire_ Royal Navy is out looking for her.

There isn’t a chance that they’ll miss a signal like that, a column of smoke twisting hundreds of feet into the sky.

And only an hour later, there are white sails on the horizon.

And only an hour after that, Commodore Ressler is once again clapping Raymond Reddington in irons.

Except this time, he doesn’t seem to mind.

(Because Lizzie is safe now.)

.

 

 

 

.

Elizabeth Keen throws herself into danger without reservation.

Explosions and bullets, pummelled muscles and purple bruises, all taken in a day’s work after she ignores the sound advice she is given and throws herself into the fray.

Blood and split skin, broken ribs and plagues contracted, Elizabeth Keen has experienced it all.

There are precautions put in place to keep her safe, contingencies, of course, men hired, tails marked. And she meets all of them with fury, pushes at boundaries until they shatter.

.

 

 

 

.

So, it is no surprise that in the end, she is fighting alongside him.

Smooth talking and relentless, Commodore Ressler bends to her will, and it is, of course, to save Mr Turner, the young _ignorant_ boy who has snagged her loyalty and affection for his own. It makes Red bite at his cheek, even as he admires her strength, her _passion_.

She truly is something to behold.

Red has no doubt that Ressler believes her to be safe aboard _The Dauntless_ , his _fiancé_ , acting the timid girl that men wish her to be. It seems to make her actions all the more satisfying, seeing her here, snarling at dead-men, kicking and clawing like an animal crazed.

It’s satisfying until Barbossa is levelling a pistol at her chest and a shot rings out around them.

And she’s looking at him, eyes wide, lips parted, Barbossa tearing open his shirt to see crimson spilling down the front of it, realisation dawning on his features.

It’s satisfying until Red kills for this girl without hesitation, without thought, something entirely _natural_ in the way his finger pushes the trigger.

It’s satisfying until he realises that he’s more relieved that she is _safe_ than the fact that _The Black Pearl_ is now his.

.

 

 

 

.

In the end, after the battle, Will only has eyes for Elizabeth.

And Elizabeth only has eyes for Red.

.

 

 

 

.

Liz has seen Red risk his life before, has seen his blood spill upon pavement, has seen it bubble and fester at the corners of his mouth. She has heard the desperate sounds _she_ makes as his namesake coats her hands, warm and slippery, as his eyes slip closed, teeth stained red and gritted in pain.

He’s lived a life of danger, has been hunted from country to country, continent to continent. Governments, spy agencies, shadow organisations, he has eluded them all.

After the crimes he has committed, many believe that the death penalty would be a fitting end for the Concierge of Crime.

.

 

 

 

.

Watching him walk to the noose, the crowd a murmuring ocean before her, is singularly the most agonising moment of her life. He holds himself high, proud, not letting the sight of that rope daunt him, or the smirk gracing his features. If she hadn’t have known better, she would have thought that he had an escape route, a way out.

But Ressler has the area secured, armed guards stationed at every exit.

Raymond Reddington will not be escaping, not today, not ever again.

So she stands beside her father and the Commodore, swallows back the vomit, the screams and sobs that simmer in her chest, and manages to exhale a feeble protest,

“This is wrong.”

Her father offers her empty words about duty and justice in response, but Elizabeth is too focused on the pain blooming in her palms as her skin yields beneath her nails to notice. Red is standing there, only yards away, and she’ll watch him die, watch as he fights for breath, his green eyes growing desperate, until they become _empty_.

And then Will is moving through the crowd, sword drawn, the crowd bursting into mayhem as the executioner pulls the lever and Red _plummets_. But his descent just _stops_ , because there is suddenly steel beneath his boots, Will’s sword wedged in the wood below him.

The next few moments are anarchy as Will and Red battle for their freedom, unarmed and outnumbered. Elizabeth knows that there is no hope for them, soldiers swarming from every direction, like a hornets’ nest disrupted and soon enough, they are overwhelmed. Ressler is standing before them, sword drawn and a snarl marring his features.

Elizabeth pushes past the men, the Empire’s men that circle the fugitives, and they are back where they began.

A young woman, standing between him and Ressler, between a Commodore and a pirate.

.

 

 

 

.

We have seen Lizzie choose the wrong man, over and over again, blinded by lies and deception, by fantasies and the social norm.

We have seen her ruin lives for him, throw it all in for a man that’s lied to her, _abused_ her, as if brainwashed, lost in the maelstrom of her life and emotions.

It’s disgusting.

But, there’s hope that she’ll find her way, eventually.

.

 

 

 

.

It’s difficult to stomach the way Lizzie clutches at the boy’s hand, shielding Red from Ressler’s gaze as she does so. Adrenaline is still thrumming through his veins, fingers still twitching as it scorches his bloodstream. His emotions would be on display, and had she’d turned, had she faced him in that moment she would have seen the heartache, the _pain_ bleeding through the meadow of his eyes.

“So this is where your heart truly lies, then?” Ressler murmurs, and there is something broken in his tone, something slightly _desperate_ and hopeful that she’ll supply him with the answer he wants.

But she doesn’t, and it pains Red something fierce, makes him realise that what he needs most at this moment, is to escape, to be back upon _The Pearl_ , the sway of the ocean rocking him to a fro. The sea spray would surely banish the girl from his mind, even if the deep waters reflect her eyes.

The opportunity has arisen, and so, he takes it, leaves them all with witty comments and creased brows. Elizabeth watches after him as he stands on the ledge that had started it all, the ledge in which she’d tumbled from, and flings himself into the depths below, a seasoned swimmer who bursts to the surface in time to see _The Pearl_ rounding the harbour, heading straight for him, his crew there to welcome him _home_.

.

 

 

 

.

Will Turner is not a bad man, he isn’t a liar or an abuser, but he isn’t the _right_ man, either.

But when Governor Milhoan turns to her and Will as they stand on the precipice of the Fort, and says,

“So this is the path you’ve chosen? After all, he is a _blacksmith_.”

She responds with a smile and looks at Will, the young man with his boyish features and easy grin. A man that had sailed the seas to find her, had fought and split blood upon sand to find her.

“No, he’s a pirate,” is her whispered reply as she leans forward to kiss him, his hands soft and smooth as they tangle into her hair.

And something within her winces, because he tastes bitter on her tongue, her eyes open and looking out to the bay, watching a black ship with black sails disappear along the horizon.

Will Turner is no true pirate.

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.

But that’s okay, because that’s not the end of the story, is it?

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so this is definitely something new I am trying, and I would very much appreciate your opinion on it. It was absolutely killer to write, so I hope I did it justice and that you enjoyed it! So please, let me know!
> 
> Disclaimer; I do not own any of the characters or dialogue above, from either The Blacklist or Pirates of the Caribbean.


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